Convoy Duty
by jodm
Summary: North Atlantic convoy duty, a stalking U-boat, and a tragic sinking bring the war home to Hogan and McGarrett.


_Hogan's Heroes and Hawaii Five-O belong to CBS. No copyright infringement is intended._

_This story is a rewrite of one taken down for technical reasons._

**CONVOY DUTY**

_**Pearl Harbor, December 6, 1972**_

General Robert E. Hogan took his seat in the launch and the small craft moved slowly away from the dock and headed for the _Arizona_ memorial. One of the sailors held a flag; another, a silver bugle. Time to raise the colors. Time to remember. The gleaming white memorial filled his eyes, but other memories filled his heart and mind. Tomorrow would be Pearl Harbor Day, but today was his own personal commemoration of another unforgettable experience. He found himself looking back, remembering **. . .**

_**. . . **_The day the war left the realm of theory and dreams of glory and became devastatingly real and immediate. He was there. He saw it all. The day the _Reuben James_ went to the bottom.

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Argentia, Newfoundland, October 20, 1941**_

Hogan was glad to go ashore for a couple of days as the convoy finished its final preparations for the dangerous North Atlantic crossing. They'd have planes flying escort for the first three or four days, but after that, they'd be on their own until they reached Iceland, with only a few destroyers for protection from marauding wolfpacks of Nazi submarines. They'd put in at Reykjavik ("Rinkydink," the sailors called it) for another day to unload supplies for the Marine battalion there, then they'd run the gauntlet to Ireland and the protection of the British Navy. A perilous crossing, one of his buddies said.

The tall pilot noticed a dark-haired ensign supervising the loading of extra depth charges on to the deck of one of the small, sleek escort ships. He struck up a conversation with the young man.

"First long cruise, Ensign?" He'd almost called the young man "Lieutenant." _Have to get used to those Navy ranks!_

The man smiled as he saluted. _Yeah, the guy was USAAF, but he was a senior officer and probably a stickler for protocol._ "No, sir," he responded. "I graduated from Annapolis this year and was assigned to sea duty right away. This is my third crossing. I'm on the old _Hilary P. Jones_." He indicated the ship tied up at the dock.

_Third crossing? Dodging U-boats? _ Hogan studied the man. "Aren't you afraid?"

"Sometimes, sir," he replied, "But we have a job to do, bringing these supplies to England." The younger officer noted Hogan's insignia. "You're a pilot, aren't you, sir?"

Hogan nodded. "B-17's. I'm on my way to a training base." He shivered as a cold wind blew in from the small harbor. "Aren't you cold?"

The ensign grinned and opened his jacket, revealing a warm navy blue wool sweater. "My kid sister knitted it for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I've got these depth charges to stow." He offered a final salute and returned to his task.

Deep in thought, Hogan wandered down the pier towards the officers' mess in search of good, hot coffee. _Just out of the Academy and he's already seen three crossings! All in a day's work! _The pilot wondered what he'd find, what dangers he'd face. Would they become commonplace when the war finally started for him?

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Greenland, October 29, 1941**_

The motley collection of ships was designated Convoy HX 156, just another in the long parade of vessels serving as Britain's lifeline as she battled for her life against nightly Luftwaffe bombing raids. Hogan looked skyward. Their fighter escort would turn back today, leaving them more vulnerable to submarine attacks. He'd wandered around the ship, visiting the engine room, the radio shack, the bridge, seen the intensity with which the men on watch studied the constant sonar readings. He could sense the rising tension as they entered the wolfpack's hunting ground. Over eighty ships threaded their way through the grey waters, guarded by two dozen small destroyers. So few protectors against so many unseen predators.

Greenland's coast slowly dropped astern. Hogan, standing at the stern, studied the dark, icy water. _The Graveyard of the Atlantic. How many ships, how many men and women over the centuries found their final resting place on the cold sands lining the deep ocean floor?_

He looked around at the small clusters of men huddled here and there on the deck, jackets snugged tight against the wind. He smiled as he thought of the young ensign, warmed by that hand-knitted sweater and the love and concern of his family, his kid sister. He wished the man luck.

The ships were following a spread pattern, the speed of the convoy dictated by that of its slowest member. Hogan could almost feel the intensity radiate from the speedy destroyers, as if they wanted to nip at the heels of their charges, like sheep dogs herding their flock. They were the shepherds, charged with bring these oh-so-needed cargoes and men safely to bases in England. He wondered if they'd all make it.

Hogan noted that many of the GI's were wearing their life jackets around the clock. If they were this fearful now, what would it be when they faced the enemy?

_**October 31, 1941: dawn**_

The commanding officer of the U-552, the pride of the German submarine force, cautiously surfaced to periscope depth and examined the approaching convoy. Fresh prey, ripe for destruction for the glory of the Fatherland and the honor of the Kriegsmarine! She already had several kills to her credit. Fortune had given her the opportunity to add another. He ordered the small vessel to advance on the ships. Yes, they flew American colors, but their cargoes were destined for Germany's enemies. They would be rich pickings, rich pickings indeed!

_o-o-o-o-o_

Hogan was unable to sleep. He dressed quickly and went on deck, scanning the nearby ships. There, just to starboard _(Another one of those odd Navy terms!) _was the _Hilary P. Jones. _That young ensign was already on deck, manning his station at the depth charges. Just ahead of the _Jones, _Hogan could make out the old _Reuben James, _guarding an ammunition ship. He stared at the old ship, a four-stacker launched just after World War I, out-matched by the newer and faster _Benson_ class ships making up the rest of the escort. Could she out-maneuver a patrolling sub? For the sake of her crew, he hoped so. He scanned the surface, not sure what he was looking for, but certain that something dangerous was out there, closing in for a kill.

_o-o-o-o-o_

The U-552's CO ordered the boat into a dive to avoid detection by enemy sonar. He carefully circled toward the approaching ships, searching a likely target. A troop ship? An ammo carrier? A warship? Any one of those was his for the taking. He again ordered his vessel to periscope depth, chose his target, and gave the command: "Prepare torpedoes!" Then: **"FIRE"**

_o-o-o-o-o_

"Better put this on, Sir." A seaman handed Hogan a life jacket. "Sonar's picked up a Kraut sub."

Hogan secured the Mae West. He noticed a group of nervous – no, frightened - GI's clustered on the deck. He offered what reassurance he could, then organized the men into a work crew. If there was an attack, their help, all the help possible, would be needed. His instincts told him an attack was imminent.

He glanced at the two nearby destroyers. Depth charges were loaded and ready on the _Jones. _The old _James _had begun a wide turn. Had she sighted the prowling U-boat? One of the sailors pointed**: **a torpedo wake! The _James _was directly in its path.Hogan watched_, _mesmerized, as in what seemed like slow motion the tin fish slammed into the port bow of the turning ship.

Crashing noise, oily, billowing black smoke, screams, the smell of gunpowder pierced the night as a scene of horror unfolded. The bow, shorn off, sank almost immediately, carrying with it the dying ship's bridge, its command crew, men who a moment before had watched helplessly as death approached. A few scant minutes later and the battered stern section swirled to the bottom. Cries of crew members thrown into the icy water filled the air, stinging the hearts of the watchers. Floating depth charges exploded, adding to the carnage. The angry sea became a living hell, threatening to engulf the few survivors of what had been, only a few minutes earlier, a proud ship.

"**LOWER THE BOATS!" **The command was a call to action, jarring Hogan out of his momentary frozen shock. He marshaled his work crew to the davits, urging them to lend their strength to that of the stunned sailors. One, two, three lifeboats creaked down to the turbid waters and moved toward the few survivors. As he sent his men to gather blankets, he saw out of the corner of his eye that a boat from the _Jones _had already begun the search. The officer he'd noted earlier was in command. The young man reached for the hand of a badly burnt survivor; the man's flesh, charred almost to the bone, looked as if it had been through the fires of hell. The crewman struggled to climb aboard, then fell away as death claimed him.

Hogan watched as the young man closed his eyes in grief for a few seconds, then continued his grisly task. One, two, three, four survivors were hauled aboard; other boats picked up a few more here and there. Burnt bodies littered the surface of the dark waters, adding to the difficulty of telling the living from the dead. Time for grieving later. Now, the work of rescue. The living must be saved. Forty-four men out of a crew of 159. A baptism of fire for them, for him, for everyone.

Minutes seemed like hours; hours, like days. Some of the survivors were brought aboard Hogan's ship. The ensign, his face and hands smudged with grease, oil, and the streaks of tears, accompanied them. The blanket-wrapped survivors shivered with cold and shock. Hogan watched, amazed at the man's generosity, as he pulled off his precious wool sweater and wrapped it around one of the freezing, stunned survivors. Other sailors hastened to do the same; warm clothes, jackets, woolen watch caps provided some comfort, gave beginning to the long difficult road of healing they would all need to travel.

_How often had this happened in the past? How many more times would it happen in the future? _ Hogan vowed he'd do all he could to bring this war to an end, no matter what the personal cost, no matter what the danger, even if it meant giving his own life.

_o-o-o-o-o_

U-552's commander congratulated his crew on the sinking. He turned away from the convoy to rendezvous with a companion sub, the U-567. Perhaps they would have another chance to add to the glory of the Fatherland before the lumbering ships reached safety in England.

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**November 4, 1941: Liverpool, England **_

Hogan grabbed his bag and headed down the gangplank. It was good to feel solid ground under his feet. _Won't be too long until I'm airborne again, even if it's just training flights for now. _The experience he and the convoy had lived through convinced him that war would soon be upon them, all of them.

As he walked along the quay, he spotted the young officer from the _Jones. _He called the man over. "I saw what you did, giving away your sister's sweater. " The man smiled his acknowledgement. "And what you did during the rescue. That took courage."

"Thank you, sir," the Navy man responded. "They were tin can sailors like me. We did what we could. I only wish it had been more. I really wanted to get that submarine!"

"We all did," Hogan said. "We all did." The Air Force officer noticed the letters in the other man's hands. "To your family?" he questioned.

"One to my Mom and one to my kid sister," the ensign grinned. "They'll be worried. Got to let them know I'm OK. He offered a jaunty salute as he headed for the base post office.

Hogan watched him for a few minutes. He'd never gotten the young Navy officer's name. He wondered if their paths would cross in the future.

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**December 6, 1941**_

Letters from overseas took a long time to reach home. The excited high school girl ripped open the one with her name on it. Grateful tears filled her eyes as she read _Dear Mary Ann, I'm OK. We'll be back in the States soon. Can't wait to enjoy Mom's cooking! _

The next day, December 7, the war came home. To Hawaii. To the United States. To the world.

Pearl Harbor**:** a day of infamy.

A day that would ultimately lead Hogan to a bombing run over Hamburg and to Stalag 13 and a team he would later describe as "the bravest men I've ever been privileged to serve with."

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Pearl Harbor, December 6, 1972**_

Hogan saluted as the Stars and Stripes were raised over the fallen battlewagon. Then, alone, he went into the memorial. His team would join him at Hickam later for a toast to the men of the _Reuben James _and the North Atlantic convoys, but this was his solitary tribute to the brave men who gave their lives and to those who rescued the survivors. He carried a lei of maile leaves, adorned with ribbons of Navy blue and gold in their memory.

As he approached the memorial wall -_ so many names, so much courage, so much loss _- he was surprised to find another man there. _Steve McGarrett!_ Something about the way the tall cop stood looking at the wall struck a chord of old memory. _That young ensign - the head of Five-O!_

A glance of recognition, a smile of greeting, a common purpose. The two men advanced together. Hogan placed the lei on the rail. They stepped back and, in unison, gave a smart salute.

As they turned to leave, Hogan smiled, "How about joining me and my team for a toast to the men of the _Reuben James _and Convoy 156?"

_o-o-o-o-o_

_**Historical Note: **The USS Reuben James was the first American ship sunk in World War II. Today, her name is proudly borne by a guided missile frigate based at Pearl Harbor._

_Coincidentally, a crewman lost in the sinking was named "Robert Hogan."_

_o-o-o-o-o_

**Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day**

**December 7, 2012**

**In gratitude**

**for all the members of the Greatest Generation**

**and all who serve our country**

**at home and in other lands**


End file.
